even to the throne of God

"Another angel came and stood at the altar, holding a golden censer; and much incense was given to him, so that he might add it to the prayers of all the saints on the golden altar which was before the throne. And the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, went up before God out of the angel’s hand."

-- Revelation 8:3-4 (NASB)

I read a poem once, many years ago, in which the aftermath of a bomb was recounted in the space and time with which it spread, how it pushed out and encompassed, had consequences none could imagine, until all the devastation, all the agony, reached all the way up to the throne of God, then somehow beyond, making the whole an encompassing terror, beyond God Himself.

While I theologically disagree, I emotionally understand.

Today is the Feast of All Saints, the time in the year we set aside to honor those gone before us who have lived lives of incarnate faith, who left grace in the wake of their footprints, and who have shown us more in deed than word what it means to reach up to the throne of God.

Yet today I steady myself. I shall stand in the small stone chapel of St. Paul's, as much as I love and cherish it, weak in knees and in spirit. The morning Eucharist to mark the memory of the faithful dead shall be an ashen taste, a sacrament that sits heavy atop my heart. For this day, this most ordinary of days in the course of a life, this most extraordinary of days in the course of the Church, finds me looking to the face of God and bringing to His Table more questions than answers, more fears than peace, more agonies than joys.

I am crumbling. I can feel within me the hard, heavy beats of a wounded heart. I have received news in myriad of forms this past week that has been upsetting, that has left me with bare feet pressed into the sands of Dover Beach, looking out as the waters pull back, unearthing all those cold stones.

What's the pain here? The pain is that in the midst of it all I still believe. The terrible gift of faithfulness, of knowing that God is Good, of knowing that God is Present, and yet--oh and yet!--knowing makes it all the worse. I look into His face and plead: "Why? I believe, this I have shown You! I believe! So why? Why should there be such pain? Why should there be these wounds? Is this testing or is this my own foolish doing? Why, O Good Lord, though I say those words with my voice caught in my throat--why?"

The painful words of Job: "‎Though He slay me, I will hope in Him; yet I will argue my ways to His face."

On this day I walk forward to the Table, the holistic ache of myself, and I lay every burden, every tear, every agony at His feet and look up into His face. I bring these words even to the throne of God. I rend up the petitions of a bruised heart with poor speech and a vocabulary of ash.

Surrender.

It's going to be about trust with you.

Even to the throne of God.

what's happened to satan? -- today at deeper story

Today, I'm sharing at Deeper Story. We near that time in the year when Church and secular conflate with regard to the holidays and it becomes, at times, hard to distinguish them. As we near the close of October, I find myself thinking on evil, evil and what evil means. Or doesn't. Is. Or isn't.

One year at a local church’s Fall Festival—one of the valiant, though often unfortunate, attempts to reclaim All Saints Day and All Souls Day from Halloween—I was greeted by a boy dressed up as the devil. At least, his conception of him. Pitchfork in hand, horns on his head, red cape on his back, and a defiant look of satisfaction on his face.

“And what are you supposed to be?” I asked him, while at the same time encouraging yet another child to throw their fishing line—string with a clothespin affixed to a stick—over into the sea—a blue sheet with cutout fish taped to it—to see what they could catch—candy attached to a fish cutout that a very kind, very bored volunteer would time and again place into the expectant clothespin, then give a little tug and put up a playful fight before letting go to the victory shout of the child.

“I’m Satan!” declared the boy, sounding horrifically triumphant.

I was amused. “You are most obviously not.”

Keep reading with me here?

life: unmasked -- failing to see cosmos

Today, I share a post about life: unmasked, a blog meme started by my sensational friend, Joy. ---

My hand grips the edge of the seat a bit too tightly, blanching fingers and feeling upholstery buckle within grasp. Words slip unbridled from my lips, white hot passion and vindication welled up within soul suddenly breaking forth, tumbling out.

I'm not mad at him, but at circumstance, at those who have made the circumstances for him, and I slip quickly into seeing them as faceless others, not persons, things and obstacles. I reverse the mystery of transubstantiated souls, deny the incarnate persons, and fail to see them as cosmoses in their own right. So I speak with certainty, a certainty that supposes that it is easy to reject others, easy to deny enfleshed being.

But it's not.

It is hard to turn, to venture, to break. When we fail to see that each person in their own right is a cosmos, a complicated soul expanding to the very edge of their body and pulsating beneath the delicate paraffin of skin, we fail to see that each is made in the Image.

Though Likeness is part of the journey, incepting with the kiss of Holy Ghost that sets the pulled flesh alight, makes soul dance and cosmos spin, Image is ever there. Image tarnished, but Image present.

Each person a cosmos, each tribe a galaxy, and all this contained within the broader system, cosmos, galaxy, universe, and to the edges, the fringe, where the hands of Father God hold close and keep in delicate balance.

How easy to forget. How easy I forget.

And this, my friends, is life: unmasked.

---

It is my joy, with Joy, to share here words that expose life honestly, openly, and messily. Some days my posts for this meme are about this chaos of being, other days I manage a bit more gentle words.Would you join us in sharing the vulnerable times, the unordered times, the unkempt rooms?